


Survival Tactics

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Basically John will do anything to feel something, Blood Lust, Disturbing Themes, Grief, Hate Sex, Hunting Tigers, In more ways than one, M/M, Memories of the War, Military History, Post-Reichenbach, References to ACD!Holmes, Revelations, Stalking, Subconscious Suicidal Tendencies, Survival Tactics, The Grieving Process, Touch Hunger, Unrequited Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Unwise Decisions, apparent character death, frank discussions of sexual acts, loveless sex, possibly dub-con, post-TRF, pre-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:46:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is grey without Sherlock Holmes in it, and John Watson has lost all sense of direction. It's just surprising to think that he's not the only one who's lost his compass, his north star, and his commanding officer. For all that he's completely insane, John sympathizes with Sebastian Moran a little more than is strictly comfortable, and is more than a little desperate to feel <i>anything</i>. </p>
<p>It's a wonder Mycroft hasn't had him sectioned (yet).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival Tactics

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this fic contains disturbing themes. I might be a little more soft-stomached than others, but keep in mind that Sebastian Moran is not a good man, despite the happenings in this fic. Both he and John Watson have done things they aren't proud of, and fortunately for us, what happened in the army stays in the army. While nothing strictly graphic happens in this fic itself, there are frank discussions of aforementioned histories and misdeeds. References to violence and death and possibly a gore!kink. Also there are references to canonical suicides, which we all know wasn't real.

John took a deep breath. And then another. And another. He knew he was being followed. It was obvious. There was a man in a great hulking coat who had been trailing him for the past half hour, since he’d left the clinic. If he thought carefully, he’d been following John for days now. John wasn’t sure why, considering that without Sherlock, there was absolutely nothing interesting about him, whatsoever.

He’d had enough of it, though, and this was getting _really_ boring. His brain was used to following Sherlock headfirst into danger, but there was nothing to be done now except to follow Sherlock headfirst off a building. But that would be far to telling, he thought. That would make too much nauseating sense. Life was hardly ever that easy.

So instead he did something he’d been careful to not do; he departed from his usual route, and stepped into an alleyway. (Sherlock had always said that there was no better way to indicate that you were aware of a tail, than departing from your routine. Sherlock had departed from his routine in the most dramatic way possible.)

He had been expecting the man to step in after him, to facilitate a confrontation. He _hadn’t_ been expecting the man to be waiting for him in the alley way.

It was a good thing that army training had been irreversibly drummed into him. He’d disarmed the other man before either of them could even blink. Unfortunately the gun skittered out of the alley way and through an open manhole cover. John didn’t turn to watch it go – he kept his eyes on the man in front of him.

He raised his hands in apparent surrender, but John had seen Sherlock fake it too many times, to have any faith in an easy admission of defeat. “Do you want to tell me why you’re following me?”

The man chewed on his gum, lazily considering John’s question. “Nope.” His body language was relaxed, and unconcerned. John didn’t pose much of a threat himself. It was uncomfortable to see that the other man knew it.

“Right,” John said, because he honestly hadn’t been expecting anything else. “Are you planning to quit it, any time soon? Because I’m done with that life. I’ve got nothing left that you could possibly want.”

The man watched him. Then he extended one hand, his left one, in clear deference to John being left handed (it hadn’t slipped John’s notice that he’d held his gun in his right hand). “I’m Moran. Sebastian Moran. I used to be Jim Moriarty’s 2IC.”

John studied him and waited for the panic. He was taller than John, and better built. He had sandy blonde hair, and he must have hulked over Moriarty, who would have been absolutely tiny in comparison. He was good looking, in an almost clean-cut, sturdy sort of way, except for his eyes (they spoke of madness).

“John Watson,” he heard himself saying, as if from a distance. He didn’t know why he was engaging. He should have been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. But there was something about this man… something about the situation that made John’s gut take note. “I guess I used to be Sherlock’s 2IC. I’m sure you knew that, though.”

Moran nodded. Not a man of many words, then.

There was another moment of silence. He shook Moran’s hand, firm, but still wary. Moriarty had been _sooooo_ changeable, and John didn’t put stock in anything anyone from his side said.

“Pint?” Moran asked, and John considered, again.

Then he shrugged. “Lead the way,” he said, gesturing. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

-

They ended up in a nondescript pub around the corner, one that John passed by every day, but had never stepped into. It was quiet, and dark, and almost completely empty. In all fairness, it was six pm on a Wednesday afternoon.

The dark wood gleamed in the dim lighting. It looked well cared for. John called for two pints, and didn’t leave his pint alone for a single second. He didn’t particularly care whether he was being obvious about it. He might not have had much left to live for, but he wasn’t going to give it up that easily.

They sat in a morose silence for almost ten minutes, only the sound of a week old rugby match being replayed on the shiny, widescreen telly.

“I’ve just lost my CO,” Moran said, and John turned to him. He’d been tracing the grain of wood on the table between them. They were in a quiet corner of the already quiet club, and the stillness was almost stifling. A waitress sat in a corner, smoking a cigarette, uncaring that she had customers. That was the way John preferred it.

John didn’t respond, because he wanted to say that Sherlock had been more than a Commanding Officer, but he wasn’t entirely sure _what_ exactly Sherlock had been. (Sherlock was dead). “Where did you serve?” he asked instead. That seemed like a fairly safe conversation to have.

Moran didn’t look like he minded. “Afghanistan. Career Soldier, I am.” He had a gruff voice, low and deep, but completely lacking the richness and sophistication which had characterised Sherlock’s voice. A common man, then. Like John.

“Same. All the way till 2010. Got a medical discharge. Ironic.” John didn’t have the energy to clarify why it was ironic. He didn’t even have the energy to complete his sentences. Moran huffed a laugh anyway.

“I know. I heard about you from the thing in Maiwand.”

John sighed. It figured. “You’re not by any chance a sniper, are you? From Camp Bastion?”

“The one and the same, Watson.”

“I heard good things about you, Moran. You went MIA, I think.”

Moran tilted his half empty pint glass and studied it. “You ever thought about Tigers, Watson?” John didn’t blink at the non-sequitur. Sherlock had done the same thing all the time (and then he’d killed himself).

“Can’t say that I have,” John responded, and took a pull of his pint. It wasn’t half bad.

“Tigers don’t like man-flesh, you see. _Sher Khan_ , they call them; King of the Jungle. They hunt when they’re hungry, and if they’re not, they don’t bother with you. You keep a Tiger well fed, and you’re safe, because Tigers don’t like man-flesh. It’s too messy. It’s not good for them.”

He looked up and met John’s gaze, and John saw that thing again, that spark of dark _insanity_. “But once a Tiger has killed a man, it has to be put down. Because there’s something in a human’s blood that makes a Tiger insane. A man-eater is addicted to the taste of man-flesh, and it will kill again, even if it knows it won’t survive the attack. It’s a death-sentence.”

The conversation was making John queasy, so he took another sip. The condensation on the outside of the glass dripped onto the table, and he ran his finger through the cool puddle.

“I developed a liking for man-flesh, Watson. They had to put me down.” Moran sounded almost… apathetic. But he’d called himself a career soldier, and if there was one thing John knew, it was that you never stopped missing the war.

“Doesn’t look like they succeeded, though.” It was an observation and nothing more; neutral. He knew he should have been shaking, coming apart at the seams from fear. He’d known men like that, back in Afghanistan. Men who’d woken up hard at the sound of gun-fire; who’d looked a little too intently at the wounded when they were carried in, bleeding and dying. It was difficult to mask the slick sound of a hand on a cock in shared quarters on days when he couldn’t sleep from the memories of blood up to his elbows and the phantom sensation of someone’s guts in his hand.

Privacy was an illusion born of respect, in the army.

John was a good man. If he’d noticed anything going on, he’d kept his head on straight and done what he could to stop it. But he’d also had a healthy self-preservation instinct. He knew better than most what happened when people stuck their necks out too far (they got cut off). He might not have respected the men, but he’d certainly respected the threat they posed, and he respected his own fear. He’d kept his mouth shut, for better or for worse. He’d never claimed to be a hero.

He’d never experienced blood lust, himself. But it was nothing new, to him. Neither was the way Moran’s eyes had glazed over at the thought of it.

And then, because he was a masochistic bastard, he asked, “how have you been holding up?”

Moran stared at him, incredulously. John shrugged. You couldn’t forget a lifetime’s worth of medical training. Not even for a mad man.

He huffed, and it was bitter. His breath was sour. “My CO’s dead. I’ve got no orders. No clue on how to proceed.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, and it was so _wrong_ it made John wince. He didn’t think Moran noticed. “I’m at loose ends.”

Something clicked into place, the pieces slotting together neatly. “Well,” he said, “so am I,” and stood up, making what was undoubtedly the worst decision of his life. He stood up. “C’mon. My place isn’t far.”

Moran’s jaw dropped. Apparently there was something about John that kept surprising people. He quite liked it. “Is this why your CO was so infatuated with you?” he asked, standing up and leaving little more than dregs of his beer at the bottom of the glass.

John snorted. “Sherlock wasn’t infatuated with me,” he stated, because at least that was true. They walked out of the pub and it was pitch dark. If he’d been in his right mind, he wouldn’t have turned his back on Moran for a second. But seeing as he had clearly gone off the deep end, it didn’t even matter what happened to him, anymore.

“You were fucking, though.” It was crude, but not intended to provoke. It was spoken like a statement, and John didn’t understand.

“No,” he said, clearly, dropping the word into the cool night air. “No, we weren’t.”

Moran looked absolutely stumped. He gaped like a fish for a moment, and stumbled a little as John made a sharp turn. Moran was letting his guard down, too.

“How is that possible? The boss was so sure…” he trailed off, easily keeping pace with John, but carefully not outpacing him.

“Yes, well, apparently both our CO’s were blind idiots.” That’s another statement of fact. Because John knew what he thought of Moriarty, but Sherlock was a fucking idiot too. He’d left John behind. (Sherlock was dead). He’d gone where John couldn’t follow, and he’d left him to get his kicks by making friends with other crazy, ex-military blokes who’d tried to kill him. Moran had surely been one of the snipers at the pool. Moriarty would hardly have had a prize sniper in his employ, and not have used him.

“I was fucking him, though. Jim, I mean.” John wanted to stop. He wanted to be ridiculous, and dramatic, and he wanted to stop and stare. But it wasn’t news to him. There had been something in the way Moran said Moriarty’s name. Something in the way his shoulders drooped, even at parade rest. Moriarty had been much more than a simple CO to Moran. That was why Moran was following him around like a lost puppy, who occasionally liked the taste of human blood. As if John wasn’t also wandering around like a lost puppy, without Sherlock Holmes.

“More like, he was fucking me.” John raised an eyebrow, because honestly, Moran was almost _twice_ Moriarty’s height, he wasn’t even sure how that would have worked.

“Did he need a step-ladder?” he asked, blandly, and it was probably ill-advised, but that seemed to be his motto, these days. Look at thy life, look at thy choices, Watson.

Moran, though, seemed mellow enough. He snorted. It was a genuinely friendly sound. There was nothing false, or threatening about it. More than anything else, that was unnerving. “There was something about that man that could get me to my knees, Watson. And you know us, military men. We’re enlightened and educated and there’s nothing wrong with being fucked, but with Moriarty you knew who was in charge. I never minded. He was good to me.”

John wondered if Sherlock would have fucked him on his knees. Or whether Sherlock would have let John fuck him. Whether it would been a brief, perfunctory business, or whether Sherlock would have turned around and kissed him, warm and languorous. Whether Sherlock would have draped himself all over John, and fallen asleep on top of him. Whether he’d have drifted off, with Sherlock’s pulse fluttering steadily under his fingers. Whether Sherlock would have allowed John to… to demonstrate affection.

“You can’t tell me there was nothing between the two of you, though. Even _I’d_ seen it!” Moran sounded like he was deliberately reaching for casualness, but he was watching John very carefully. “You two were the image of two blokes in love!” And it should have been a ridiculous sentence! It was a ridiculous sentence. John had never heard anything more absurd in his life. And yet.

_Christ._ That was right, wasn’t it?

He’d been wondering whether Sherlock would have let John love him. He’d been in love with Sherlock Holmes.

He pressed a hand against his open mouth and closed his eyes, feeling the pint bubbling in his empty stomach, a whirlpool of acid and bitterness. God. That made so much sense. He stopped without intending to, in the centre of the sidewalk. Moran stopped beside him, watching him.

“Fuck, Watson, you’re a mess.” Moran sounded somewhat sympathetic, but also almost baffled. Like he couldn’t quite believe he was in the situation of having to reassure someone he had almost sniped barely a year prior. John didn’t blame him. He was baffled, himself.

“Tell me something I don’t already know.” John heard himself speak, still disconnected from the reality of the situation, a high pitched whine in his ears deafening him to everything else but the pounding of his own heart and the rush of his own blood.

“I just did,” Moran responded, and that was true, wasn’t it. John hadn’t known.

And the worst part was that Sherlock had probably known that John loved him. He’d probably known even when he’d called John, from that rooftop. He’d known and he’d called John anyway. He’d given John the chance to tell him, and John hadn’t taken it. John hadn’t even realised it. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. His hands were shaking visibly, even in the darkness of the evening. He couldn’t afford to have a meltdown in the streets.

“Come on, Watson. Let’s get you indoors.” Moran sounded gruff, and still somehow exhausted. His brusqueness was refreshing; John was tired of people treating him like he was breakable, or made of glass. The fact that he was on the verge of shattering was a different matter all-together. The problem was that he _wanted_ to shatter. He didn’t want to be on that precipice any more.

John led Moran into 221, grateful that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t in. He didn’t think he’d have been able to look her in the eye.

The trudge up the stairs was… it felt endless. When he’d been with Sherlock, they’d often _skipped_ into the flat, breathless from laughter instead of from the climb. He was definitely letting himself go. He hardly cared anymore.

The ludicrousness of what he was doing was just sinking in, but there was literally nothing else. There was no alternative. No reason to not do it. Because it didn’t matter. He didn’t particularly enjoy one night stands, but he was grieving the loss of the man who would have been his life partner. And so was Moran. It was fucking _insane_ , but it would be an almost appropriate sort of send-off. It would have made Sherlock crazy, at how illogical it was. The thought made John almost smile.

Moran was studying 221B with interest. John knew what he was seeing. He was seeing the wreck of a home, in the papers left deliberately scattered around the room, and the traces of a lost love in the single, empty mug on the coffee table where there should have been two.

“What are we doing, Watson?” Moran asked, but it didn’t sound like he wanted an answer.

“I keep thinking that if I get him angry enough, he’ll come back just to yell at me. It’s either this, or sleeping with his brother. I’m crazy, but I’m not _that_ crazy.” It wasn’t exactly an answer, mostly because John didn’t know what they were doing either.

There was a moment of awkward silence in which John considered asking Moran if he wanted a cup of tea, but before he could open his mouth, Moran spun him around and planted a kiss on his lips. It was hideously awkward but they held up for a moment, before John pushed him away. They stood arms-length apart, looking anywhere except at each other.

“No kissing?” Moran asked, but it definitely sounded like he hadn’t enjoyed that either.

“No kissing,” John agreed, and then something clicked into place. Clothes came off with military efficiency, tossed aside carelessly until they were nude and bare in front of each other. This wasn’t a seduction. It was a distraction. It was scratching an itch, and making do with limited resources. John had seen more naked bodies than he knew what to do with, in his life. It hardly mattered that there was another one in front of him.

He looked around the room, trying to figure out how they’d manage it, but Moran shoved him towards the sofa before he could come to his own conclusion. John huffed and glared, but went anyway. He wasn’t really in the mood, but then by the looks of it, neither was Moran. Neither of them were hard, and it didn’t look like they’d be getting there anytime soon, unless they did something about it.

It looked like Moran was coming up behind John, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. Not with this man. He shook his head and stood up.

“Changed your mind, Watson?” he asked, wanly, as if he’d expected it.

“Not a bit, Moran. You go first, though,” he said, gesturing towards the sofa with his head.

Moran glared, puffing himself up to his full height. If John had been anywhere in his right mind, he’d have been worried about the myriad ways in which this could go wrong. Moran was definitely larger than him, and definitely in better shape. He was also probably insane. He could have taken John without breaking a sweat, and somehow John had thought it was a good decision to get naked in front of him. But the alcohol was probably mixing with the grief, and making him more reckless and stupid than he usually was. He rolled his eyes.

“Get on your fucking knees, Moran. I’ll get you off. You like shorter men, remember?”

It was a low blow, but Moran seemed to deflate, and it was one of the most unnatural things he’d ever seen in his life. He was not like this. _They_ were not like this. This wasn’t something he did. But his body was moving as if it didn’t much care about that. Moran was moving like a puppet whose strings had been cut, jerky and unwilling, but moving regardless.

John stroked his own cock perfunctorily. He didn’t know why he was doing this, but he was doing it anyway. Everything about the scenario was wrong, but nothing was ever going to be right again. He rolled on his last condom, from the failed last date with Jenny, and found the small tub of clear lubricant from the medical kit.

Moran was stroking himself, lazily, without much enthusiasm. “What the fuck are we doing, Watson?” he asked again.

“I’ll be damned if I know, Moran,” he replied, honestly, unscrewing the cap and gesturing for Moran to turn over. He did, without argument. That was good, because John didn’t want to be seeing his face. And it was cruel, but he didn’t think Moran wanted to be seeing his face either. They were both going to try and pretend it was someone else they were touching, and it wasn’t likely going to work, but they were going to try anyway. They didn’t have a choice.

His touch was clinical, if that. Moran smelled like cigarette smoke, and day old sweat. John was sure he smelled the same. He could still taste the beer on his tongue, and he was glad. He was so glad, because this was going to be utterly loveless, and completely unmemorable, and it was going to break them, just the way they needed.

It was a doctor’s hand that found Moran’s prostate, and not a lover’s. It made him moan, anyway. It was an easy way out; a trick, but every human male responded to direct contact with the prostate. It didn’t matter that they were grieving. It was just a physical reaction. Just to remind himself that he was still alive.

He was generous with the lubricant, because while he wanted this to hurt, he didn’t actually want to end up causing actual damage. Prep was thorough, but hardly gentle. It was doing what it was supposed to, if the sounds Moran was making were any indication. John didn’t care, and it made him sick how apathetic he felt.

When he was sure Moran was stretched, John lined his cock up with Moran’s arse and pushed in, slowly. His skin was crawling. Moran moaned, low and deep in his throat, and John wanted him to shut the _fuck_ up. This wasn’t supposed to be good. This was supposed to hurt. It was hurting him.

And then he moved. Moran was tight, and hot, and he was only human. There was nothing in his mind, neither technique not skill, just the base need to get off. Maybe when he came, the weight on his shoulders would be lifted. Maybe then he’d be able to breathe.

Moran was stroking his own cock, pushing back into John’s thrusts, his muscles clenching spastically. Pleasure sparked at his nerve endings, hot and white, and he came, gasping, and buried himself in Moran, as deep as he could go, seeking some satisfaction or some special release from the chains he’d tangled himself in.

For a few, sweaty, breathless minutes the blinding rush of endorphins overrode the discomfort that lay just under his skin, the distaste and the grief, and the knowledge that this was going to be his life from then on, grey and meaningless. But he didn’t want to be touching Moran anymore, so he got up, and moved away, and the grief flooded back, assaulting his senses like it had never stopped.

Moran had come too, at some point, and was lying on the sofa, panting lightly.

John sighed, because that had been an exercise in futility. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm and slid the condom off. He tied it neatly and dropped it in the bin in the kitchen, looking for a cloth to clean up with. He tossed it at Moran, who cleaned himself up efficiently, in silence, before dropping the cloth in the kitchen sink. John couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Shower?” John asked, because he was not a savage, nor was he a brute. Even Moriarty, for all that he’d been batshit _insane_ , had had some modicum of class. John might not have had class, but he was at least a gentleman. At least, he tried to be.

Moran shook his head. “Thanks Watson, but no. This was a bad idea,” he said, and it was the most obvious statement he could have made. This whole thing had been wrong. Inviting Moran back to this sacred space had been a mistake. Every minute he’d spent in their home had weighed uncomfortably on John. He was pulling on his clothes and when he was done, John handed him a glass of water. He accepted it gratefully and downed it in one go.

 “Be well, Watson.” It sounded sincere, if a little devastated. He stood near the door, fully dressed, deliberately making eye-contact. John met his gaze, standing near the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against a wall as if he was going to collapse, still completely naked.

“And you, Moran. I just wish…” he didn’t know what he wished. He wished Sherlock was back. He couldn’t bring himself to wish that Moriarty was back, because he’d hated the bastard with a passion, but he wished that Moran wasn’t suffering. Moran was crazy too, but they’d all of them done bad things. He empathized so completely with Moran, and he didn’t know if anyone deserved to feel this way, like some essential part had been carved out of them, leaving them permanently crippled but unable to die in peace.

Moran nodded, as if he understood. John sighed, and nodded back. There was nothing else to be said. There were no words left in the universe that were relevant.

When Moran left, John was glad for it. He was glad to be alone in his own space once again. He’d ached for company, not twelve hours before, but he realised that he wasn’t seeking company. He was aching for Sherlock, in particular. He should have known better.

The door to 221 slammed shut, and John relaxed, a little. He dragged himself into the shower, and washed off all traces of Moran. He was sure Sherlock would have been able to read it in the lines of his body, anyway, but Sherlock wasn’t there anymore.

He didn’t go back to his bedroom though. Instead, he sat down on Sherlock’s chair for the first time since Sherlock had ~~died~~ left and curled up under Sherlock’s tattiest dressing gown, and slept.

He dreamt that Sherlock came back to 221B, and yelled at him for being an idiot, for inviting dishonourably discharged snipers into their flat for an illicit fuck. He dreamt that Sherlock yelled at him for sitting on his chair, and for wearing his favourite dressing down, and for limping because of a psychosomatic injury. Sherlock yelled, and yelled, and yelled, and it was a good dream, because Sherlock was breathing in order to yell, and that made it inherently wonderful. 

When he woke up, he was still sitting in the living room, on Sherlock’s chair, surrounded in Sherlock’s scent. He’d done the worst, stupidest thing he could think of, and Sherlock still hadn’t come back to yell at him.

John pressed his face into the silky material of the dressing gown, and gave up. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've ever written, of this sort. I'm not one who can easily envision people having sex with people they don't like. Consequently this was a difficult fic for me to write, and I felt dirty and unsettled for days after finishing it. It was a personal accomplishment, I think, and I've finally decided to publish the damn thing, because it's eating my brain and I need to have some sort of feedback. It was originally titled 'Man Eater' but that was a little too raw for me, so I changed it.


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